


Have you been wicked, Mr Holmes?

by Phoenix_Rose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, F/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Rose/pseuds/Phoenix_Rose
Summary: She pushed Sherlock to the wall, working his body the way only she knew how to, placing kisses just where she knew would do the most damage.  Her victim gasped slightly, spoke hoarsely.“What’s this for, Miss Adler?”“Big brother is watching.”  She smirked, pressing a kiss against him.“Well now.  Have you been wicked, Mr Holmes?”He stood ready, prepared for her to take over, take him to the flat.“Yes, Miss Adler.”*Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler.  The posh boy and the dominatrix.  Together for the first time in months, dealing with the creeping sentiment and unavoidable attraction that draws them together the morning after their night together, masking embarrassment as people around them finally catch onto the fact that maybe, just maybe, someone could drive The Virgin wild.Contains mild description at smut.  Is my first time writing smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EBDaydreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EBDaydreamer/gifts).



> She pushed Sherlock to the wall, working his body the way only she knew how to, placing kisses just where she knew would do the most damage. Her victim gasped slightly, spoke hoarsely.  
> “What’s this for, Miss Adler?”  
> “Big brother is watching.” She smirked, pressing a kiss against him.  
> “Well now. Have you been wicked, Mr Holmes?”  
> He stood ready, prepared for her to take over, take him to the flat.
> 
> “Yes, Miss Adler.”
> 
> *
> 
> Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. The posh boy and the dominatrix. Together for the first time in months, dealing with the creeping sentiment and unavoidable attraction that draws them together the morning after their night together, masking embarrassment as people around them finally catch onto the fact that maybe, just maybe, someone could drive The Virgin wild.
> 
>  
> 
> Contains mild description at smut. This is my first time writing smut, so be nice. I really enjoyed embarrassing Sherlock, which is a little mean.

Sherlock woke late with a small groan, feeling a numbness in his arm.  He looked over to it, unable to shift it either way, and smiled gently when he saw the sleeping form of Irene Adler, nestled close to him.  Her black hair had fallen over her delicate face, not quite devoid of her pride and charms in this unconscious state, but so much more vulnerable.  He reached over and lifted her slightly, untangling her from him before brushing a strand from her closed eyes and ghosting a kiss on the top of her head.  ‘Sentiment’ he thought to himself, lying back upon his pillow.  He no longer thought it bitterly when he was annoyed with himself and others, now it was thought fondly as he looked over the object of his affections in all her glory.

“Good morning, Mr Holmes.”  Came her voice, still heavy with sleep.

“Good morning, Miss Adler.”  He looked over her, smirking slightly as he saw the marks he had left to claim her.  “Would you like breakfast?”

She smiled, looking innocent but with a devilish glint in her eyes.  “I’m not hungry, Mr Holmes.”  He smirked back as she moved on top of him, deepened the kiss she granted him.

 

“Sherlock?”  Came the call of Mrs Hudson.  “John called, he’s coming over with Mary.  Would you like some tea?” 

Said detective groaned softly, not only due to the pressure of Miss Adler as she moved about, but also the disappointment that they’d been interrupted.  How tedious. 

“No thank you Mrs Hudson.”  He called down, composed far more than most men would be in the intimate company of Irene Adler.

“It appears this shall have to wait, Mr Holmes.”  She shifted herself and him until he was upright with her straddling him.  He gave her one last kiss,  “You don’t make it easy to leave, Miss Adler,” before lifting her beside him.  He dressed himself quickly, looking unruffled and composed, though he blushed slightly as he wondered how to mask the vivid marks on his neck and the purpling bruises on his wrist.  His companion had no such concerns, simply moving (still stark naked) to the living room and picking up their discarded clothes.  She put on the purple shirt she had taken off him with such haste, crumpling her white dress and his black pants and chucking them unceremoniously into the bedroom.  

“Are you meaning to be a cliche, Irene?”  Sherlock asked, using her given name for the first time that morning.  She moved closer to him, placing herself against him even though the shirt barely covered her, stroking his cheek.  “Does it embarrass you, Sherlock?”

He shook his head negative.  His gaze then fell on the coffee table, and he did colour slightly.  “Perhaps we should move that.  Before John arrives.”

 

_ When she arrived they were in the living room, alone.  They had little time for words, he only had the time to mention her name in that deep rumbling voice of his before she set upon him, worrying at the buckle of his trousers and capturing his cupid bow lips with her red painted ones with expert precision.  He caught on quickly, tugging at her tight fitting dress as they leaned against the coffee table for support, two adventurers exploring the other for the first time in months, their hands roaming into territory new to them.  He cupped the firm curves of her now naked figure as she pressed her soft lips to his, and she stroked the sharp edges of his face before relieving him of his shirt, leaving them both defrocked.  They carried on until the fragile wood gave way beneath them, pausing to breath and laugh before she touched him just so and elicited a single husky command. _

_ “Bedroom, now.” _

 

Irene knew what memory had been brought forth - she could feel the shift of blood as it diverted from his precious brain.  She disentangled herself, determined to make him wait, and together they moved the evidence away.

 

“Irene,”  Sherlock began, “We have a minor issue.”

“Oh?”

“John isn’t aware you’re alive yet.”

Irene giggled slightly.  “Do you want to tell him?  Or should I?”

Sherlock smiled fondly at her.  “I’ll break the news, then you can appear before he hits me, if you’d be so kind.”

“But of course, Mr Holmes.  Wouldn’t want him to cut himself.”

He grinned at the joke, their joke, before motioning her to the bedroom to wait until they were ready.

 

“Sherlock?  Can I come in?”  Followed a knock on the door.  Sherlock frowned confusedly.  Didn’t John have a key?  Had he lost it?

“It’s open,” he replied.  When the doctor and his wife entered he broached the issue, “Have you lost your key, John?”

John coloured slightly.  Mary, kindly, took over.  “We didn’t want to interrupt anything.  Mrs Hudson warned us to knock first.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “How did she- I mean, what is she insinuating?”

John gave a weak grin.  “You’re in a victorian flat with bullet holes.  It isn’t exactly… soundproof, mate.” 

The unfortunate resident of 221B blushed violently, knowing he could never again look upon his landlady.  It took a moment to compose himself, now only a slight pink flush to belie the calm expression.  “Tea?”

“Yes, please.”  

 

The married pair sat down and Sherlock placed the cups on the table, sitting facing them.  He spoke first, before anyone else could ask a question.   
“Do you remember the Woman’s case, John?”

“Yes?”  The blogger felt a sinking in his stomach.  He could guess what was about to fall from his ex-flatmates bruised lips.

“I know she didn’t go to America.  I know she didn’t go on witness protection.”

John nodded, looking guilty as his lies were relayed to him.

“But she wasn’t beheaded, either.”  Sherlock took on a bashful, but still proud, look. “I wasn’t quite prepared to let that happen.”  

John sighed, not angry, more exasperated.  “People never die around you, Sherlock.  I should have seen it coming.”

Sherlock looked relieved, not needing another bruise in his collection.  Although, it wasn’t as if the bruises from the night before were… unwelcome.

 

_ Their bodies linked together as they tumbled clumsily beneath the sheets, long pale fingers ghosting over each other’s taut sweating skin, both hearts beating in harmony like a war drum, teasing and playing each other like instruments until, finally, sweet release and she gifted him with a moan so much more pleasurable than that of a text tone, but not before taking them with as much ease and pride from him.  She'd brought her riding crop for him, and it never took her long to find the cuffs in the draw that stashed them in after last time.  Of course he'd put up a fight before he let her chain him to the bed and take over, sucking and biting softly on her neck and abdomen, feeling her gasp and writhe with pleasure beneath him, ragged breaths against his flesh.  It took her a while to get him in position, to assert her dominance and make him beg for her mercy, once, twice, more, each time more desperate until she gave it him.  When she unlocked him he got revenge, making her moan his name and beg for more.   _

 

_ He could never hold out long enough to make her wait. _

 

Irene arrived quickly after her existence was revealed, taking it as her cue.

“Doctor Watson.  Long time no see.”

“Indeed, Miss Adler.”

“And you must be Mary.  Well, Sherlock’s told me about you.  Says you’re an excellent shot.”

Mary blushed slightly herself as Sherlock smiled at her.  He’d forgiven her for the shooting, and she was remarkable.  Irene herself sat herself nearly on Sherlock’s lap, deciding to share his armchair and cause him as much embarrassment as was possible.  She was doing well, Sherlock was not at all used to having a beautiful woman clad only in his shirt sitting too close to him.  He blurted out something incomprehensible, and John was reminded of the first time Adler had insinuated her attraction to the detective.  Sherlock cleared his throat, composed again, taking care to punctuate his sentence.

“Would you like anything, Miss Adler.  Tea?”

He hardly waited for her positive response before darting off.  Irene hummed slightly.  “Don’t know what’s come over him.”  She announced.  “He wasn’t this shy last night.”

John choked slightly on his tea and moved to join Sherlock in making tea, not particularly wanting to listen to the dominatrix discuss her and his friends… night.

 

Irene smiled at Mary.  “Never were sure where to look, either of them.  Oh, I had fun when we met.”  She smirked.  “Sherlock even gave me his coat.”

Mary’s eyes widened slightly.  “And what on earth prompted Sherlock Holmes to give up his precious coat?”

“My battle dress.”  Irene purred.  Sherlock returned, placed her cup in her waiting hands, took his previous position, and clarified.

“She greeted us both whilst wearing nothing but her shoes.”  He looked down at the smirking Irene, “John it rather difficult to know where to look.”

“As did you, Mr Holmes.” 

Sherlock scowled as that was pointed out, deciding to ignore her admittedly valid statement and plant a kiss on the top of her head.  Sentiment wasn’t all that bad, really, and he had her so close it was really inconsequential whether or not he showed it.  His phone went off in the bedroom but he ignored it, instead the four in the living room engaged in conversation, all having a got at stroking Mrs Watson’s newly grown bump.

 

Three short raps on the door brought them back to reality.    
“What on earth do you want?”  Sherlock yelled, displeased at their time being interrupted.  “We’re busy.”

“Can I come in?”

Lestrade entered when given the positive response, but apparently had not been warned about Sherlock’s guest.  He gawked at the sight of a woman sat so close to the ice cold Consulting Detective, especially when she was only in a shirt normally seen beneath an elegant suit.

“Get on with it then!”

“Ah, right, yes.”  Lestrade stuttered.  “Who’s that, exactly?”  

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “A friend.”

“Not a friend.”  Irene muttered amusedly.  “I don’t think you treat your friends like that.”   
“Quicker to explain, my dear.” Sherlock murmured back.  “I don’t think you completely understand the D.I.’s ability to waste time.”  Aloud he told them that, “No, I will not attend whatever scene your incompetent force cannot deal with.”  He gave an unnatural grin - his speciality, “I am engaging in social... things.”

Irene sighed,  “Come on Sherlock, the Inspector needs your help.”  She lowered her voice, “You know I like detective stories…”  She licked her lips and continued in an even more sultry voice, if such a thing was possible,  “And detectives.”

Sherlock’s eyes had widened slightly and the red tone of his cheeks was really rather alarming.  In response to what Irene had told him, without others hearing it, he had removed Irene from his chair and stood, announcing that Lestrade should text him the location and they would follow.  John felt he could probably guess what Irene had said.  The unprecedented, ill-masked enthusiasm with which Sherlock spoke could only really have one source.  The Inspector left quickly.

 

“Now, Mr and Mrs Watson.  Do you wish to attend?”  John looked to his wife.  He was rather looking forward to watching reactions to Sherlock’s ‘friend’.  Mary nodded, told Sherlock they’d both be coming.  He grinned and grabbed Irene by the arm, ready to tug her out the door.  He stopped abruptly, “Do you have any clothes save yesterday’s, Miss Adler.  I fear it might be a bit… creased.”

“No, I didn’t expect to stay go out today, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock frowned slightly and sighed.  “Wait here then.  Get a cup of tea or something - you know where everything is John.”  He smirked slightly at Irene, “Detective stories on the top shelf.”  And he disappeared.

 

It took twenty minutes for him to return, scowling slightly, bearing a bag and a bottle of milk.

“You are lucky I require you to look professional at a crime scene, Miss Adler.  I remember now why I order online.”  He thrust the bag at her and she left.

“You went shopping, just because Irene didn’t have fresh clothes.”  Came John’s incredulous voice.

Sherlock’s scowl deepened.  “We were out of milk, too.  And besides, Miss Adler’s dress is not in any state to be worn today and she can hardly wear mine.”

 

Irene returned, wearing the third outfit she had tried from Sherlock’s variety of clothes.  A short blue dress, unbuttoned at the top.  Sherlock blinked. 

“I did include tights, Irene.”

She shrugged, “Not my style.”

He said nothing, reaching into his pocket.  “Here.”  He clasped a silver bracelet round her wrist.  “Thought it would suit you.”    
She stared at it.  It did suit, but one thing stood out more.  Sentiment.

 

They arrived at the scene by taxi, all four of them arriving together.  Sherlock had never even dreamed of having such a group, and yet… he smiled.  It wasn’t half bad.  John and Mary close together like the loved up married ones they were, his faithful blogger’s hand sporadically moving to rest on the growing bump of his wife.  Irene standing close to him, hooking her arm through his and leaning herself against him.  She wanted to be noticed, she wanted people to see her, see the marks she’d left last night.  Sherlock wondered briefly whether the scarf covered his, knowing that Irene wouldn’t care who saw her’s.  She wore her’s like a prize, proof she had driven The Virgin wild.

 

“Anderson, remove yourself from my sight before you put me off.  And you Donovan - perhaps the pair of you could continue what you were doing earlier.”  Both of them turned to retort but froze when they spotted his company.

“Who’s that?”  Donovan demanded. 

Sherlock remained silent, moving over to the body, ready to reveal the simplicity.

“Hang on Sherlock,”  Irene said, the picture of innocence, “I have to give you something.”

Sherlock frowned.  What did she mean?  He caught on too late.  Their chapped lips were already pressed together, her hands tugging on his lapel and shifting the scarf till it no longer covered the bites she left, shifting his cuff till the bruise of the cuff wasn’t quite invisible, showing off everything of her’s he’d tried to hide.  His hands were already too busy to resist, one buried in the groove of her back, one playing with her loose hair.  They broke apart to breathe, and Irene smirked when she saw the nauseated gaze of Anderson and Donovan, and observed John and Mary pointedly looking away.

“For luck,”  She declared bouncily.  Sherlock grinned at her, proud and slightly dazed from her embrace.

“You’re a demon, Woman.”  He paused, adjusting his clothes until evidence was hidden.  “And I’m afraid I rather like it.” 

 

The body lay prone on the floor as Sherlock studied it, circling it like a hunter might an elephant, or a teddy the garden, lips still tingling from the ‘luck’ Miss Adler had given him.  He spoke his deductions aloud, pausing for John to add in his amazed comments.

“Clearly he was cheating on his faithful wife with her… brother.  Twin brother, even.  He had a reputation and an unaccepting family, so he married the girl but loved the boy.”  He stopped, expecting and ‘amazing’, or perhaps ‘brilliant’, but that wasn’t what he got.

“All that from one look?  Brainy’s still the new sexy.” 

He grinned, beckoned her over.  “Tell me what you see, Irene.  Let’s see if you’re as good as you used to be.”

 

“He was shot from behind and the person was either left handed or angled diagonally.  He wasn’t expecting them.  You need to get the bullet and check the gun, and then see if it matches one of the hunting guns in the drawer.”

Sherlock pressed yet another kiss to her head (his reputation must now be in tatters),  “Definitely the new sexy,”  he said lowly.  “And now, we must pay a visit to a Miss Molly Hooper.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock!”  Molly exclaimed as he entered, bring his gang along.  By his request, Irene was stood with John and Mary.  He wasn’t quite sure how well Molly would deal with the intimacy, and he had a feeling that being so close in a morgue was Not Good.

“We need the report on the body just brought in, if you please.”   
“Oh, ok.”  She peered closely over Sherlock’s shoulder at Irene chatting with Mary, “Who’s this?  Do I know her?”

“No one you need to worry about, Molly.  The report if you would.”  He took it from her, “Thank you.”

“Sherlock.”  Molly gasped, “What have you done now?”

“Hmm?”

“Your wrist!  You’ve been arrested!”  Molly glared at him, “I’ve seen enough handcuff marks to know them.  Now you explain yourself right now.”

 

Sherlock’s jaw hung slightly open, his cheeks slightly red.  He looked across for help, but only found a trio hiding sniggers.

“It’s not how you think, Molly…”  He murmured weakly.  Damn Irene!  He glowered inwardly.  He was going to get his revenge tonight, he would. 

“Then what is it?”  Molly was still angry.  She was so used to Sherlock’s misendeavours, used to slapping him after the drugs, she couldn’t quite see past the obvious use.

_ Help me.   _ He mouthed, his back to the fuming pathologist.  Irene stayed impassive.  He repeated it, and she finally came to help.  She’d made him beg.  Twice.  

 

“Good afternoon, Miss Hooper.”  She smiled, “I can tell you Sherlock’s not in trouble with the law.  I was with him all night”

“Then wha- oh.”  Miss Hooper turned scarlet.  She suddenly realised the not so conventional use for handcuffs, and John’s blog.  “Are you Irene Adler?  The one he knew by… not your face?”

Irene smirked slightly, “Well, he never mentioned that bit.  And I can tell you that he wasn’t arrested last night…”  She smirked,  “He’s not into roleplay.”

Sherlock gaped, a vibrant shade of crimson.  Molly turned a delicate shade of pink, but valiantly tried to converse, bustling round the desks.

“No, he doesn’t seem the type.”

The man in question closed his mouth and his eyes, trying to ignore the fact that his ‘tastes’ were being discussed quite so openly.

“Anything interesting in the reports, Molly?”  He asked, eyes still closed.  He didn’t look at anyone as the information was divulged and left still red, only raising his eyes to glare at the back of Irene.

 

Sherlock texted the culprit to Lestrade on the way home in the cab.  They stopped briefly at John and Mary’s house, had a look at the construction of the nursery.  The detective noted the theme - his gift could be a teddy or something equally mundane.  He and Irene decided to walk home, the cabs being hard to flag down in John and Mary’s quiet street.

 

“Is that one of Mycroft’s men I spy?” 

Irene broke the comfortable silence, pointing with the arm not trapped by Sherlock’s.  He squinted, tightening his arm around her.  He wasn’t quite sure what Mycroft would do with Irene if he ever found her. 

“I think, Miss Adler, that my brother had some bugs in my flat.”  He smirked, a devil in his eye, “My guess is that he looked at last night’s footage this morning, saw our body language when you came in, broke his laptop and decided to remove the cameras and destroy the footage.”

Irene giggled.  She spotted a camera pointing at them and decided to do her best.  She was going to misbehave.

 

She pushed Sherlock to the wall, working his body the way only she knew how to, placing kisses just where she knew would do the most damage.  Her victim gasped slightly, spoke hoarsely.

“What’s this for, Miss Adler?”

“Big brother is watching.”  She smirked, pressing a kiss against him.

“Well now.  Have you been wicked, Mr Holmes?”

He stood ready, prepared for her to take over, take him to the flat.

  
“Yes, Miss Adler.”


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Begins with smut! This is the warning!
> 
> As is this!
> 
> FINAL WARNING! SMUT AHOY!

_The Woman stood over him, riding crop in her firm grip.  Her perfect red lips were stretched in a smirk as she surveyed his body, observing the marks she’d left on the submissive figure stretched on the bed.  He’d begged, over and over and over as she ravished him. **  
**_

_She’d stripped him to begin, but teased him with the sheer lace that hardly covered her.  She was in command, of course; he’d known that the minute she’d made him gasp and shudder under her barrage of kisses against the wall, the minute she’d slammed him against the firm mattress and begun to work the tight shirt over his head.  Miss Adler had planted kisses on his body and wrapped her legs round him as she dragged him upright. She’d traced the scars on his back with her slender fingers, brushed butterfly kisses on the track marks traipsing up his arms, bitten softly at his neck as he lay ready to accept her punishment, surrendering completely to her.  She brushed his cheek and whispered seductively into his ear, leaving him breathing heavily as she disentangled herself and left to dress in something more comfortable._

_She returned quickly, more beautiful and more confident than any goddess, taking the air out of her worshipper’s lungs when she touched him where it would do the damage.  Her white teeth sparkled slightly in the dim light as she leaned forward.  He’d remember like this.  The Woman who beat him._

Sherlock snaked an arm round the sleeping Irene, stroking her bare shoulder with his calloused thumb, wondering what that beautiful intelligent mind dreamt of.  He wondered if it too was filled with memories, of secret rendezvous and the hasty love of two dead people, of the relief when they found each other amongst the rest and knew they were both (just) alive, of the moment they could finally stop hiding and embrace within the walls of Baker Street.  And speaking of… he blushed slightly, wondering whether the poor Landlady had been subjected again to their sounds of passion.  He had warned her that they needed to be quiet, both of them, and she’d apparently taken it as a challenge to ensure the opposite.  He hoped the neighbours didn’t complain - he had a reputation to uphold!  Still, it had been mutually gratifying to record new ringtones, personally this time.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mr Holmes?”  The still sleepy voice of Irene sounded in his ear.  He shifted to face her.

“They’re worth so little?”  He said playfully, pulling an offended face.

She hummed slightly, a mischievous grin etching itself on her face.  “Indeed they are, Mr Holmes, seeing as how I could extract them quite easily.”  She placed herself close, close enough so he could feel her breath on his cheek, “Very easily indeed, if I tried.”  She sucked softly on his neck and he moaned slightly, feeling the blood flow shift from towards his precious brain with alarming rapidity.

“I don’t doubt it, Miss Adler.”  He muttered.

 

“Cooee!”  Mrs Hudson’s piercing greeting wafted into the room.  “Can I come in?”

“No, please don’t,”   Sherlock called back, a slight urgency tingeing his tone.  Irene smirked as she lay her head lazily against his chest and brushing the inside of his leg lightly.  His voice hitched slightly as he tried to talk.

“Come back later, Mrs Hudson.”  He was acutely aware that his voice was not even a semblance of composed and he glared playfully at Irene.

“You’re a devil, Woman.”  He murmured.

Unseen behind the door, Mrs Hudson placed down the tea that didn’t just happen with a new urgency and beat a hasty retreat, leaving a shocked ‘Oh my’ behind her.

With his freshly bruised lips, Sherlock relaxed on the bed, Irene nestling into his side.

“We should probably get up, Miss Adler.  The tea Mrs Hudson brought up is no doubt getting cold.”

“Do you think she’ll come up again?”

“I think we might have scared her, Woman.  That was a rather crude trick you played.”

Irene smiled, “Are you complaining?”

Sherlock hummed and shook his head negative.  They rose together, neither bothering to take the clothes discarded on the floor by the bed, instead wrapping close together in the sheet.  They walked in sync to Sherlock’s well-worn armchair and sat close together.  Irene took her seat with a cheeky grin, wriggling slightly in his lap.  He folded his arms round her slim waist and kissed her cheek before shifting her away.

“I’m checking for cases, my dear.  I can’t be distracted right now, unfortunately.”

She pouted slightly, unwrapping herself and sashaying away, her naked body dragging his traitorous eyes from the Work.  No, he had to focus.  He did.  The Woman could come later.  With a determined flutter of the paper, he opened it to a random page, preparing to scan for the unsolved, the baffling, the genius.

 

“Oh…”  Sherlock swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly and his cheeks burning.  This was unexpected.  His mind blanked slightly, the only thought available the crass (but not undescriptive) bollocks.

“Miss Adler?”

She looked up, her attention caught by the hesitance in his voice.  He handed her the paper, purposely not looking her in the eyes.  She looked at the headline, giggling slightly.

**Sherlock Holmes After Dark!**

**Internet sensation Sherlock Holmes has sent shockwaves throughout his group of adoring fans after being photographed in an alley near his home with his mystery beau.  Fans are already trying to find the identity of the mysterious woman and find out exactly who has captured the notoriously unsentimental detective’s eye.**

Emblazoned across the top of the story was a grainy but nonetheless identifiable picture of the moment Miss Adler had decided they should give big brother a show.  Apparently someone else had seen, and now his reputation was in tatters.  Who knew how many people would read it, and if it was a National Paper everyone would know.  

 

With a sudden flash of realisation the colour drained from his face.  He groaned deeply and covered his face with his hands.

“Which paper is that, Irene?”  Came his muffled voice.  He sunk deeper into the chair at the answer before looking up at her, despair in his eyes.  “My parents buy that paper, Woman.  They are going to find out about my… romantic entanglement… through a ridiculously over exaggerated piece in the paper.”

She sniggered,  “Romantic entanglement?”

He glared.  “My words are hardly the issue here, Adler.  The issue is that my Mother is about to give herself a heart attack when she see’s her youngest caught in the act by the paper!”

He pulled the sheet over his head, deciding he would rather stay hidden for the rest of his life than face the questioning of his mother.  She was an excellent interrogator when she wanted to be, and his father would be just as curious.  His phone vibrated on the table.  Irene took it in her delicate hands, reading it aloud.

“Sherlock, me and your father are going to come visit.  We’d love to meet this young lady in the paper.  We’ll be here by twelve, and I think we’ll bring Mycie along.  See you soon, Love Mummy.”

 

“Oh no.”  He groaned.  “Anything but that.”

Irene laughed loudly.  “You’re a grown man, Mr Holmes, you can survive introducing me to your parents.”

“No.  I can’t.  Fetch a basin, I’m deathly ill and simply can’t deal with visitors today.”  He pulled a face,  “Moving from sick to dead.  Do me a favour and call the undertaker.  And my parents.  Insinuate I have the plague!”

“Come on now, Sherlock.”  She said, walking over, “It can’t be that bad.  Now come get ready.  We can’t greet them lol this, I guarantee that.”

“It can be that bad,” he mumbled under his breath, “You’ve yet to meet my mother.  And Mycroft will be here too… you might as well shoot me and have it done with.”

She smiled gently taking his hand.  

“Come on.  Promise to behave, and I’ll give you a treat.”

He raised an eyebrow, contemplating it.  “In advance?”

“Naturally.”

He smirked and let her lead him to the shower.

 

_They stood pressed together, the warm water dropping like bullets onto their bodies.  Irene moaned slightly as she leaned against the wall for support, gripping at Sherlock’s wet hair as he entered her, and (for once) she gave him control.  She clawed at his back, tugged at his hair, both sweating in the steaming room.  Legs weak they both explored each other, forgetting for now that they were in a rush, that they were soon to be interrupted, instead enjoying the others company, writhing with pleasure with every new move and moan they extracted.  With a small gasp, Irene reminded him that they did need to be ready.  He pouted, pressing a greedy kiss to her neck and grasping at her waist.  She didn’t resist, letting in the tongue that asked for entrance and wrapping her arms round his neck._

_‘What did it matter if they were a little late,’ she decided, shifting slightly as wandering hands moved southward down her body.  ‘This was much more fun.’_

Mr and Mrs Holmes had already let themselves and their eldest son into 221B when the pair emerged from their room, hair still wet and slightly tousled.  Mycroft took only a second to look away, nauseous as he realised what his baby brother had been getting up to.

“Apologies, we were busy.”

“Very busy it would seem, Brother mine,”  Mycroft said drily.  Sherlock scowled, hardly avoiding that far too frequent blush, as his brother received a smack on the knee for his troubles.  He sank into an armchair, making an effort to not look anyone in the eye.  He felt like a teenager again, not that he’d ever done anything like this in his younger years.  He glanced at his mother, wondering how long she would take to confront him.  He flashed a look around, wondering where Irene would sit.  If she was as smart as always she wouldn’t sit by his parents  (the questioning would be unceasing) and she certainly wouldn’t go near his frowning, disapproving brother, who could deduce everything from the way their clothes were buttoned.  With a sudden flash a self consciousness he checked his clothes.  He couldn’t hope to hide from Mycroft, but he’d never allude to it.  If Mummy found out he’d never survive.  Everything seemed in order as Irene moved from the doorway to a seat.  He frowned, confused, as she ignored the seats that were free.  Oh no.  She wouldn’t, surely.

“Room for a little one, Sherlock?”

That demon.

 

He remained still and allowed Irene to take her now usual seat curled up with him, absent mindedly securing her with an arm slipped round her.  He looked stonily ahead, daring any one of them to mention the fact that his fingers were playing with her soft loose hair.

“Irene, those are my parents.  Parents this is Irene.  Wave, perhaps?  Do whatever greeting you feel necessary.”

They smiled warmly at each other,  Irene lightly tapping his elbow in a playful admonishment.

“Now now, play nice!”

He pouted playfully before remembering the witnesses, grey haired sentimentals who were cooing openly at them.  Sickening.  

 

“Now, does anybody want to explain why I discovered my boy had a lady friend through a photo of them canoodling in the newspaper?”  Demanded Mother Holmes.

Sherlock stammered and hesitated, umming and ahing as his pale face turned scarlet through mortification.

“If it makes it better,” He said weakly, “We didn’t mean to get caught.”

Varying amounts of laughter came forth at his expense, both at the answer and the general air he displayed, showing quite clearly that he was totally out of his depth.

 

He frowned.

“Tea?”  

Four positive replies and left Irene to fill the chair alone, missing the warmth she provided him.  When he returned with the only clean cups, they were getting on well enough. He placed cups in hands, taking in the situation.  Mummy, even if she was annoyed she hasn’t been told, was beaming at the fact her youngest had finally shown signs of settling down, already gushing over the idea of romance and weddings and-

“Can I be expecting any grandchildren soon then, Miss Adler?”

The couple both choked on their drinks.  His mother, blasted woman, carried on talking.

“I always did think Sherlock would be the first one to settle.  I was talking to Susan the other day, I said ‘don’t you think our Sherlock would do with settling down now all this excitement is over with’ and she said she reckoned so.  And our Betty, well, she was talking about how Sherlock used to babysit the little ones when he was, ooooh, fifteen?  It was the only time he was ever so nice to anyone, playing pirates with Lucy and Sammy, and Beryl said-”

“Mummy, please stop now,”  Sherlock said, finally able to talk after the initial shock.

“We’ve not spoken about children, Mrs Holmes,”  Irene choked out.

She deflated slightly, but then perked up.  “Well, you’re both young yet.  Plenty of time for that still.”

They decided not to answer, sipping their tea quietly and hoping for the awkwardness to pass.  At least they liked Irene.  It would have been worse if they didn’t.  Mummy looked ready to hug her, why, they’d be inviting them over next.

“Oh Sherlock, the pair of you must come visit soon.  You can bring John and Mary.  Perhaps on the weekend?”

The Detective could not think of a worse way to spend his weekend, especially when his Mummy had babies on the brain. (He didn’t dislike children - Archie proved that - but he wasn’t fond of discussing providing the next generation.  And Irene didn’t seem thrilled either.)  He knew it showed on his face, and yet Irene had agreed!  Why?  She was as uncomfortable as anyone, why would she agree to a weekend?  A whole, long weekend.

Mercifully, despite how it dragged, their unwanted guests eventually departed, leaving the poor detective to confront the dominatrix.

 

“Why on earth are we spending the weekend with them?”  He hissed, trying to appear angry.  It wasn’t quite successful.

Irene only smiled, “I’d like to get to know them.  If I’m going to stick around I’ll have to get used to them.  Go on,”  She waved him away like one would an insistent puppy.  “Go ask John and Mary if they’ll join us.”

John and Mary could and would be joining them.

 

As the car pulled up outside the old house, Sherlock took a moment to ponder where his life had gone so horribly wrong.  He had lamented to John, pleading with him to be busy that weekend, so he could cite it as a reason not to come.  (“You don’t understand John, I can’t go, she’s talking about… babies!”)  John had chuckled lightly and told him there was nothing to be done - the ladies wanted to go and their loyal partners must do their duty and accompany them.

“Oh, Sherlock!  You came!”

The detective was enveloped in an embrace so tight he swore he could hear his bones creaking.  He remained straight, arms locked at his sides.

“Indeed I did.  Irene insisted.”

His mother shook her head and invited them through.

“Your father’s gone to fetch Mycie, Sherlock.”

“He agreed to come visit?”  He asked incredulously.  Mycroft hated nothing more than family dinners, despite the copious numbers of cakes.

“He doesn’t know.”

He stared after his mother, watching her smiling form enter the kitchen.  He hoped Mycroft brought cigarettes.

 

Dinner was a tedious affair, Mycroft glaring at them all from his seat, their parents doing the obligatory cooing over Mary’s bulging stomach (though the pointed look he was flashed was completely unnecessary.)  Then, naturally, the conversation turned to him and Irene.

“You never said how you met,”  Sherlock’s father pointed out.  He wasn’t as excitable as his wife, but he was still glad his son was beginning to thaw.  He’d hated the fact Sherlock was so cold, so emotionless.  Always had.

“A case.”

“Oh, so you were a client, Miss Adler?”

“Oh no, certainly not,”  She smiled,  “I was the suspect.”

Sherlock choked quietly on his drink, wondering how mother was going to take it.

“Innocent, I suppose?”

Sherlock placed his glass down and spoke for her.  You didn’t need to be a genius to see she was going to tell them everything.  And really, they didn’t need to know.

“Yes, innocent.  A mix up over mobile phones.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but a warning glare was shot his way.  He sighed quietly - did Sherlock not appreciate the paperwork it would take to make Miss Adler innocent?  Good Lord, the first form alone didn’t bear thinking about!  And yet he was bound to do it, just because his foolish little brother had gone and succumbed to sentiment.  Pitiful.

Mrs Holmes was a genius.  She knew something was wrong with Sherlock’s story, something big.  Still, she wouldn’t pry (for once).  Sherlock would come to her with that in his own time, she knew.  For now she’d play along, pretend that Irene Adler was the innocent victim of a mix up.  But really, who’d fall for that?  This was her son they were talking about - he wouldn’t fall for just anyone!

 

Sherlock ate little, even with almost the whole table trying to force him.  He wasn’t hungry, and his hand itched for a cigarette, even though it had been months.  He scowled inwardly - he could not stand it here.

“Will you play for us, Sherlock?”

His mother’s request.  She always wanted him to play, always ended up with tears in her eyes, even at joyous songs.  Still, he walked upstairs to retrieve the prized possession from his case (he was hardly going to leave it at home, was he?)

He played Bach, and he played Vivaldi, and he played Beethoven.  He played John’s favourite and his father’s favourite and Mycroft’s most detested.  Still his mother wanted more, finding joy in the quivering bow on the strings of his violin.  He played John and Mary’s waltz, smiling slightly as they moved closer together.  He played the unnamed compositions, the ones he played whilst thinking.  He played John’s lament, the song he had used to rouse the good doctor from nightmares in those early days.  Song by song of his own creation tumbled into the air, until he was left with one.

 

The shrill mournful notes of Irene’s theme floated into the air, tumbling over one another.  He’d never played it for her, no one else had heard it except John, and that was accidental.  This was the sound of his grief, of his broken heart, of his sentiment.  This was the sound of Irene Adler, and yet it wasn’t quite right.  This was the song of her death, and she was so alive.  It was a spur of the moment thing really, an impulsive ridiculous act, that made him carry on past the end.  The sound of passion, of hiding and running, the soundtrack to their hiatus.  And then it was the joyous sound of their return to the living, still secretive but less so, still passionate but softer, gentler.  Then, finally, it was the sound of now, of happiness and their new beginning, who she was to him.

They all stared at him, even the normally composed Mycroft seemed struck by the emotion he had poured into his music.  He flashed his eyes to the carpet as Mummy pulled out her handkerchief, moving closer so that Father placed an arm round her.  John and Mary smiled knowingly at each other; they’d wanted them to be together since the beginning.  And Irene, his Woman, she was struck dumb.  Only then did he remember that throughout the whole song he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, her face, her eyes, her hair.   She knew, of course, that the song was for her.  

He shook his head slightly and reached for his case, putting the violin away and taking out the notes of Irene’s theme.  It was better he wrote it down now rather than let it slip away.  Irene moved over to his doubled over figure, placing herself near enough that her presence was felt but not intrusive.  Impulsive again (no wonder Mycroft always beat him at chess) he straightened to press a soft kiss to her cheek before continuing to write, thrusting the papers into her hand when he was done.

“You should take them,” he said quietly,  “It’s your song, after all.”

She smiled slightly and took his hand, and he knew in an instant he was a lost cause.

 

The Woman had beat him, he’d fallen in love.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter (very much late... sorry about that). Look out for the smut, Christmas sentimentality, and a special present from the Woman.

Sherlock grimaced dramatically as decorations began to encompass his living room.  The tree, the tinsel (why must they pick the one that shed all over the place?), the general air was sickening.  The urge to divulge sentimental thoughts seemed to overwhelm the entire populace at this time, and even the criminal population seemed to succumb to the spirit of goodwill.  He turned to Watson, sighing as he saw the latest mistake.

“Yet again you fail to connect actions to their consequences, Watson.  You must understand that to me the world is an open book, and if you - as your mind is still undeveloped - wish to do well you should listen to what I say.  Now, for the last time,”  He picked up the plush Santa and handed it back to Rosamund Mary Watson,  “If you wish to keep the toy, do not throw the toy.”  He ended the sentence with a fond smile, a fond smile that dropped as the plush Santa connected with his face.  He sighed and placed it beside her.

 

Rosie was, despite his protestations to the contrary, the only good thing in Baker Street at the moment.  With John and Mary insisting on decorating (oh God, was that… mistletoe?) and Irene away (goodness knew where, it was business; apparently.  And no, he was not in the least jealous, thank you very much, John), he was relying on the bright eyes and smiling face of the new Watson to raise his spirits.  She was immensely curious already, very keen on experimenting on how far she could pull Sherlock’s curls before he was unable to hold the forced smile, and equally fond of drooling over herself and requiring changing.  Whenever John and Mary fell asleep on the couch (basically half an hour into any visit) the duty fell to him and he, as the doting godfather, was obliged.  

 

The moan of Irene Adler sounded tinnily from the phone on the side table.  He jumped up, ignored the glare of the new parents (“That is not a noise for children, Sherlock!”), and grabbed the phone in record time.

_Hang in there, Mr Holmes.  I’ll be home soon.  We can have dinner._

_-IA_

He smiled, perhaps Christmas wouldn’t be a complete waste.

_I look forward to it, Miss Adler.  Baker Street isn’t as lively with your absence._

_-SH_

 

Sherlock picked up Rosie, hoping to stop her wails waking her parents.  It had been an hour at last since Irene’s text.  With a sigh, he looked quizzically at her.

“What is the problem, Watson?”

He was thankful as ever for the power of deduction.  She wasn’t hungry, nor was she tired, nor was her nappy full.  Which meant…

“You just want attention, don’t you?”

He shook his head, holding her carefully and rocking her slightly.

“Would you like a story, Watson?”

She made no reply, as babies were known to do, but he took the end of the cries as a positive.

 

“Once upon a time lived a pirate, the most fearsome pirate on the whole seven seas.  His name was Captain William, and he travelled with a retired knight who was his First Mate Hamish.  First Mate Hamish was never without the beautiful Princess Mary and the even prettier fairy Rosie.”

John and Mary woke at the sound of their baby's cries through the crackling monitor.  But they also heard them stop, and the deep voice of the detective beginning his story.  They smiled blissfully at each other, eyes still blurry with sleep, and settled down for Sherlock’s story time.

“First Mate Hamish and Princess Mary were very much in love, so much that poor old Captain William had to watch them kissing all the time!  Blech!”  Sherlock smiled at Rosie, watching her relax and giggle at his newly animated face.  “But one day, Princess Mary went missing, and the pirates knew she was in danger.  Well, they weren't about to let Princess Mary get hurt, not when the Fairy Rosie needed her (as did they, not that they'd ever admit it) so they went to the Apple Tower to save her.”

Mary and John looked at each other.  This was Sherlock telling Rosie about Appledore.  Surely they shouldn't let it happen.  And yet, there was something in his voice, something soft, and they knew it'd be fine.

“The Apple Tower was a thousand feet high and guarded by a fearsome dragon with a nasty habit of licking people and taking them prisoner.  And there, in his power, was Princess Mary.”  Sherlock paused, tickling Rosie softly on her stomach and letting his deep laugh mingle with her giggle.  “Captain William didn't know what to do, which, mind you, was a very rare thing.  He and First Mate Hamish were stuck, but the Fairy Rosie hovering by encouraged them.  Still, the dragon was winning, and they didn't know how to slay him.”  

John and Mary listened to the silence for a moment.  Clearly, Sherlock hadn't figured out how to baby proof this part quite yet.  They entered the room silently, John chuckling as Sherlock jumped at Mary's voice.

“Of course,” she said, “Princess Mary was more resourceful than anyone thought.  She too was a retired knight, and when the silly pirates got captured, she slew the evil dragon herself with Captain William's cutlass.  Then she picked the lock and she, William, Hamish and Rosie all lived happily ever after, especially when, not long after, William got his own princess, a woman called Irene.”

 

Sherlock handed the sleepy John his baby.

“How much did you hear?”  He asked.

“All of your story.”  John smirked, “First Mate Hamish?”

“John isn't a very pirate-y name,” came the haughty reply.  It didn't take long for all to laugh.

Rosie was placed in her cot, newly exhausted by the action, and the adults adjourned to the living room.

 

“You're better with kids than I'd have thought,”  John admitted.  He had assumed Sherlock would think babies boring, or perhaps show them crime scenes as he has Archie.  And yet he was fine, telling fairy stories and rocking her to sleep, and he has definitely caught him blowing a raspberry on her stomach when she was fussing, letting her get away with tugging his hair and biting his hands.

“I've always been fond of children.”

Perhaps that was a slight lie.  He'd hated them when he was one.  He was different to them and it was clearly visible, so they avoided him.  But now, children were fascinating.  They were curious and unspoilt, not having quite learned to stop asking questions.  He adored that; the curious people always learnt most.  And even babies who couldn't talk to ask were agreeable.  They weren't particularly noisy if you kept them happy, and they were perfectly good company in silence or if one required a monologue.

 

Mary and John left at six, promising to be back at eleven in Christmas day, ready for the blasted party Mrs Hudson insisted upon.  Sherlock prayed Irene would be back for it, he wasn't sure how he'd survive the festivities without her.

He smiled to himself, thinking of Mary's contribution.  Princess Irene.  She was certainly regal enough, and definitely able to dance as one would at court.  He stretched out on the couch as he remembered dancing with her the last day before her trip, the feeling of flying and total contentment he'd never known before.  He remembered it, the way he'd decided to do the traditional thing, just this once.

 

_Sherlock tugged awkwardly at his tie.  He'd always loathed them, but he'd YouTubed how one should dress for a date and it specifically mentioned the tie, so he was stuck.  He checked his watch.  The reservation was hours away, so they had time for the other things he'd planned, thank God.  He'd been irrationally nervous when asking Irene to go on a… date… with him, considering their already intimate relationship, but she had laughed and agreed.  She'd dress up for him, like a real date, and then he'd escort her wherever._

 

_The dress was… completely her.  Tight fit, short hemline and dipping neck, the black and white material showed off her best parts, the belt emphasising her thin waist.  He tugged slightly at his jacket and offered her his arm, leading her to the car had hired.  He didn't want to waste time hailing a cab, not on their last night together till who knew when.  They chatted gaily the whole journey, but he never let on where they were going._

 

_“Oh!  Sherlock…”_

_Irene had been lost for words when she saw where they were.  She kissed him square on the lips, a short chaste kiss of gratitude and excitement, before looking again with shining eyes.  She'd told him months ago about this, about how she'd wanted to come, and he’d actually remembered.  He handed her the tickets.  First rate seats for Gypsy at Savoy Theatre._

 

_The show was lovely.  Both of them enjoyed it, the music flowing over them and enchanting them.  They left the building with reluctance, even before they saw the rain that was falling.  Sherlock had cursed quietly, before taking off his jacket to hold over Irene._

_“Such the gentleman, Mr Holmes,” she'd said as they reached the car._

_“But of course, Miss Adler,” he'd replied._

 

_They were right on time for the reservation at Angelo's, walking in to be greeted by the man himself._

_“A candle for you and your date, Mr Holmes?  More romantic,” had come the customary joke._

_“If you'd be so kind,” he'd replied, deadly serious._

 

_He seemed disappointed it wasn't John._

 

_He pulled out the chair for her and tucked her in, handing her the menu.  He even consented to order something more substantial than a starter, though he didn't eat more than a quarter.  Spaghetti for both, and ice cream for the Woman's afters.  Payment was waved off, as usual.  He received a twenty pound tip without noticing, as usual._

 

_Back at Baker Street, sat together on the couch.  They were close, each with a glass of wine (the Woman's insistence) and the bottle between them.  They'd had more than a glass, he knew that, as they were both laughing more freely and louder than often.  The radio played random songs on a random station - they'd turned it on when they came in, not bothering to change the channel.  A slow song came on, Sherlock didn't know the name, and without noticing his own actions he had offered Irene his hand._

_“May I have this dance, Miss Adler?”_

 

_They swayed together, spun around the room together, her hands behind his neck and his one her waist.  They didn't notice when Mrs Hudson popped her head in just in time to see them rest their foreheads together and smile at each other, neither needing to say the words that hung in the air around them.  She pressed a kiss to his lips, both of them smiling in it._

_“Thank you, Sherlock.”  She'd whispered._

_“You're welcome, Irene.”_

 

_She'd taken the lead then, placing his hand on her zip and telling him to pull it down whilst she'd tugged him into a deep kiss by that ridiculous tie of his.  She'd taken it off him, mercifully (he really hated the damned thing), and it was terrific aim in her part that had it hook on the horn of the headphone wearing skull.  Both hastily defrocked they'd tumbled into bed together, equals in the game._

 

_They gave each other as good as they got, both marking each other as their own, returning every move with their own.  They extracted moans and begs from each other and held them like prizes.  They relished in making the other writhe in pleasure and gasp at their next attack.  Their hot skin pressed together and limbs tangled as they worked at each other, finding each other's weak spots and exploiting them mercilessly.  They fought for the handcuffs, sucking on each other's neck to try and deter them, trying to reach behind the other as they straddled them.  Sherlock finally took them, having found that entering her was an extremely good distraction._

 

_When she surrendered he connected her to the bed, not quite sure what to do but knowing instinct would kick in as he experimented, stroking here and pressing kisses there, finding out how to make her to weak.  She still fought back, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration to strike.  She recorded the moan he gave out as her trophy, set it as her text tone one handed, but didn't let him notice.  He recorded her, too even though the last one was still quite new.  The sweet sounds she made were too good to waste, especially when he got her in just the right place and she clawed at his back with her free hand, begging him to carry on, to give her everything and more._

 

_He was a gentleman, he always gave the lady what she wanted._

 

Eleven in the morning on Christmas Day came quicker than expected, and soon enough Baker Street was packed full of excitable visitors.  Molly was there, chatting with Mrs Hudson in the kitchen.  Gavin?  Gary?  Greg!  Greg was by the tree talking to someone he couldn't see.  John and Mary spoke to the neighbours, Mrs Turner's married ones, and their pained look suggested they were full as dishwater.  Sherlock sat in his chair, watching Rosie play with her new blocks, forced to wear his new ear hat.  He'd sent his present to Irene with her, in case she hasn't got back in time for Christmas.  A necklace, a thin golden chain with a bright ruby rose hanging from it.  She'd not made any reference to anything, so he waited to see if it would be given when she returned or by text.

 

The party fell silent at the orgasmic sigh of Miss Adler (different to the one they'd heard last time) coming from Sherlock's phone.  They'd watched him snatch the phone in an instant before composing himself, realising he’d been perhaps slightly too eager.  He cleared his throat slightly, made a show of reading his emails before the text, even though everyone could see he was counting the moments before he could look and keep his reputation (a little bit) intact.

_Chimney.  It's too big for the mantlepiece._

_-IA_

 

He moved in silence to the fireplace, aware of the eyes following him, reaching an arm inside.  His hand soon brushed against the wrapping.  Taking it out, he looked at the paper.  The same colour as her lipstick, just like the phone’s wrapping had been.  Perfectly neat and near impossible to deduce, blast her.  He opened it, the room still silent and watching.

 

He looked at the gift, turning it in his hand, chuckling slightly at the anti-climax.  An envelope.  Trust her to double wrap.  It smelt of her perfume, the one she wore on their date.  He opened that and took out the paper.

 

He froze, staring at it.  He had dropped the envelope, clutching the picture with two shaking hands, slightly pale but clearly happy.  John could only remember one similar incident - when asked to be best man.

“Sherlock, mate, are you alright?”

Still silence.  John sighed, telling the room to give him a minute, he was just buffering.

 

“Well well,”  came a silky voice, “I expected more of a welcome home, Sherlock.”

Irene Adler stood in the doorway, her face breaking into a smile at Sherlock’s shocked face.  Ah, how she’d treasure that look, the fact that she’d shocked Sherlock Holmes.  It wasn’t an easy thing to do.  He reached her in three strides at a speed no one else could ever hope to match, lifting her off her feet to twirl her around and kiss her.  

“That good enough?”  His voice was tinged with amusement, but he still held the look of disbelief.  His hand trembled slightly as he reached forward, placing it hesitantly on her stomach, where he knew their child was growing.

 

At this, the room finally caught up and exploded into a cacophony of congratulations and other sentimental things, Mrs Hudson smiling tearfully and Mrs Turner consoling her.  John clapped him on the back and Mary embraced Irene, promising all the good tips.  The father-to-be cursed as he thought of the phone calls he would have to endure with Mycroft and Mummy, earning a tap on the arm from the expectant.  They looked blissfully happy, happier than they had ever looked.  They didn't mention that their baby wasn't exactly planned, they didn't care.

Happy Christmas indeed.

 

Boxing day.  The day where their guests were no doubt regretting their alcohol consumption from the night before and the day Sherlock had decided to tell his family of the newest Holmes.  Mother and Father would be too exhausted to talk for long, and Mycroft too busy to lecture him on sentiment and it's dangers.  Still, he wouldn't do it quite yet.  He'd prefer to stay wrapped up with Irene, one arm draped protectively around her shoulders and one resting atop the hand she lay on her stomach, smiling slightly as she slept, waiting for her to wake.

 

Midday had come and gone before he decided to call Mycroft.

“Is this a social call, Brother Mine?”

“That would depend on what you considered social, Mycroft.”

Sherlock knew that his brother would detect the slight nerves and excitement in his voice and go through the options in his head.  He estimated twenty seconds for the realisation.

“Sherlock!  What have you done now?”

Twenty eight.  He was getting slow.

“I believe I have provided Mother with that grandchild she wanted so.  Congratulations would suffice, Brother Mine, but I really can't chat.  I haven't told mother yet, and-”

“She dragged me to Scotland, Sherlock.  I put you on speaker as soon as I realised the truth.”  He could almost see Mycroft’s smug smile.  “Happy Christmas, Sherlock, and congratulations.”

 

He debated hanging up before Mummy took the phone.  He looked to Irene for advice and only saw her laughing at his sullen face.  It was too late to hang up by the time he'd quit pouting.

“Hello, Mummy.”

He held the phone away from his ear as she alternated between joyous exclamations and annoyance that he'd called Mycroft before _her._  Still, the happiness won out and he endured five minutes of her rambling before his father took pity and took the phone.  Nothing overly emotional there, a quick congratulations and a chat and they were done.  He was free, finally.

 

He joined Irene on the couch.

“So…”

He couldn't find the words.

“Agreed.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't need to.  I can read you like a book, Mr Holmes.  You don't need to speak for me to know you're both excited and terrified of this.”

He nodded slightly.

“Mostly excited.”  He pointed out.  She nodded.  He grinned.

"Any ideas for a name?"


	4. Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cover for Have you been wicked, Mr Holmes?


End file.
